


It’s a Wonderful Christmas (it’s a dream)

by Messy_haired_bum



Series: Unnatural Writers Club [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: (I don't think any of my story is), M/M, Not Happy, Shoulda post this around Christmas, forgot, oh well
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-06
Updated: 2017-01-06
Packaged: 2018-09-15 06:37:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9223376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Messy_haired_bum/pseuds/Messy_haired_bum
Summary: It's Christmas, and Dean just wanted to bury his head in the bottles. Cas disagreed.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This work is a collab with Moose and Destiel at Supernatural Amino.

 

Knocking back a shot, Dean grimaced. He was on his third shot, and unsurprisingly, the whiskey didn’t taste that much better than the piss it started out as. He was determined though; either he drank himself to oblivion by will alone, or the whiskey would magically be better and help him there. As long as he got properly drunk, at least enough to bear through this shitty, shitty day. 

 

A swish of air ran across his back, but Dean mulishly stared down at the amber liquid in his glass. He was not in the mood to deal with Castiel’s silent, vaguely condemning countenance today. 

 

“Dean.” He didn’t turn around.

 

“Dean!” More forceful this time. Dean thought that the angel was a bit uptight, and a little too serious (and he was not dealing with Apocalyptic bullshit right now, so everyone could fuck right off), and in need of surgical stick removal. He huffed back a giggle. Oh, wow, apparently he was more drunk than he thought.

 

Best not to angry the nerd angel though. Dean sighed, sounding very put-upon, and turned just enough to peer back at Castiel, who was (un)surprisingly frowning. 

 

“What, Cas?” He raised a eyebrow. “Came asking my help to trap another Archangel? Sure, we haven’t try Michael yet, let’s go!” By now, he was grinning.

 

The angel’s frown, somehow, got even more severe. Dean was half afraid his eyebrows would twist together and fall straight off his face. Castiel without eyebrows, Dean snorted. Perfect.

 

Castiel glowered. “That is not funny, Dean. You must not say -”

 

“Yadda yadda I know I know. One word and the world ends and everything.” Dean sullenly glared at the angel. Cas did not sigh, but looked very much like he wanted to. The angel did soften though, which was a plus. 

 

“And I do not think I would care to see myself without eyebrows.” Came a non-sequitur. 

 

There Cas went again with the unintentionally passive-aggressive comments. Sometimes Dean thought Cas was being a little shit, except he knew that the angel lacked so many social skills that this was just Castiel being Castiel.

 

“Dude. Stay out of my mind.”

 

“My apologies. In my defense, you were broadcasting it very loudly.” 

 

“Seriously, Cas. The hell do you want?”

 

The angel frowned once again. “Today is December 24th. I thought it would be ... nice, if we could celebrate the Birth of the Son together.”

 

Dean nearly choked on his spit, staring up at Castiel in utter disbelief. “Christmas? Are you shitting me?”

 

Castiel’s head cocked to the side as he squinted at Dean. “I think Christmas was a pleasant concept, flawed it might be in origin. Although I have yet to comprehend the significance of an obese man intruding your home via fireplace; in other settings, it would be deemed unacceptable, or so I have heard.”

 

Dean chuckled. That was a good one, he had to give the angel that. Still, “Cas, I don’t do Christmas.”

 

“You did, though.”

 

“Yeah, and that’s a fucking - long - ago!” Dean spitted, irrationally angry. Christmas was forty years and a Hell ago, was Sam and his eggnogs and those Pagan Gods and never again. Now was shitty enough; he didn’t need a well-meaning but clueless angel digging up all those things over again. 

 

Castiel had the decency to look glum, but the determined glint didn’t leave his eyes. Dean eyed his glass in contemplation, wondering if he somehow could drink quick enough to knock himself into a coma right then and there. Though knowing Cas, the dude would probably magic everything away again. The bastard. If the angel could leave him well enough alone -

 

“Dean?” 

 

He was snapped out of his thoughts. “What, Cas?”

 

The angel seemed to steel himself. “I don’t understand much about human holidays, but I know one should not spend this day alone.” 

 

Dean didn’t know what to say.

 

Castiel looked into the hunter’s eyes steadily. “And I’ve been wanting to experience Christmas, also,” he added.

 

The bastard.  _ Bastard _ , Dean said loudly in his mind, hoping the angel would hear. The manipulative bastard. Dean was so proud. 

 

“Fine.” Dean sighed despondently, setting his glass back to the counter. Throwing a couple of bills next to the glass, he pushed past the angel and into the snowy night.

 

Glancing back at the angel still standing inside looking rather forlornly, Dean raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “Well?” 

 

Castiel was visibly surprised and pleased, then visibly wasn’t there. Dean turned around, and there the angel was, looking smug and satisfied.

 

“What do you suppose we could use for ornaments?”

 

“What?” 

 

“You know, those multi-colored decorations humans tend to adorn their indoor pine trees with.”

 

Dean couldn’t help but laugh. “Some use angels.” He grinned at Castiel’s horrified face. 

 

“They must be truly blessed to be able to survive the encounter.” The angel said, all business and serious-like. 

 

Dean laughed again. The places the naive angel’s mind went to never ceased to amaze him. At the questioning head tilt, he waved Cas off and clarified. “Statues.”

 

Castiel looked suitably appeased and enlightened. Dean thought that this shitty day might not be so bad after all.

\-------------------------------

They were in the motel room after a long walk. No actually, they were in Dean’s gaudy, god-awful motel room after a long ass walk through the snow, tree-shopping. Castiel took Christmas very seriously, apparently, because “Dean! Even though you humans got almost everything wrong when Christ was born, this is still an amazing holiday and we have to take it seriously!” 

 

For all of Cas’s deliberations and maybe-nots and no-s, though, they ended up with the most pathetic looking tree in the yard, because “Nothing should be abandoned today, Dean.”

 

Dean was getting really tired of the angel’s shit. But he went along with Cas’s requests and set the tree up at the corner of the room. It somehow managed to look even more pathetic there. Taking the red, blue, and silver string of lights out of the bag they just purchased, Dean handed them to Cas. The angel seemed like he would enjoy decorating it.

 

The angel beamed with delight, walking over to the short, nearly barren tree which was losing the fight with gravity fast. He strung the lights around the branches, absentmindedly straighten up the poor tree, humming the catchy Christmas song he knew from the shop with something like pure enthusiasm, as much as an angel of the lord with a resting face of an axe murder could anyway, and somehow managed to get tangled up in the lights. “Dean!” 

 

Dean looked over at the sight, shaking his head. “How - You know what, never mind.” He walked over, glancing at the poor angel. “You really got tangled up.” He couldn’t figure out where the strings started and ended. “I think I’m gonna have to cut it.”

 

“No!” Cas protested. “The lights will be ruined.”

 

“Fine. Then use your mojo and Houdini yourself out of it.” 

 

“If I do that, I’ll blow the lights out, Dean,” he grumbled. “It is also an unnecessary use of my grace. Each act does, in fact, drain the little supply I’m rationing, Dean.” Castiel spitted, slightly bitter; the happy atmosphere from before was weighed down with the depressing reality they both were trying to escape.

 

Dean nodded, wincing slightly, and stepped closer to help untangle the mess. He didn’t offer any other words, though his emotions must had shown on his face enough that the angel seemed contrite at the bite. 

 

“I apologize, Dean. It was unfair towards you.” Castiel looked down at the floor, littered with dark green needles from the tree. 

 

Dean shook his head, finally managing to set him free. “It’s fine, but let’s not talk about that today, okay?”

 

“Okay.”

 

Dean flashed him a quick smile, before clearing his throat and turning around. He returned to what he was doing before - making hot chocolate - in an attempt to lighten the atmosphere. It was unusual, but he managed to strongarm the angel into it. To be honest, Cas did put up an admirable protest “I don’t require sustenance, Dean” “Oh shush, it’s a Christmas thing. Now hand me the chocolate.” He heard the angel shuffling around behind him, poking and prodding at everything, something like ooh-ing and aah-ing echoing over to where Dean stood. The hunter quirked a smile, and had to concede that this was nice indeed.

 

As he set into the familiar routine of make hot chocolate, Dean let his mind wander. He was not kidding; his last Christmas was so very long ago, even without counting Hell and all that came with it. When he came back (crawled out of his own grave, which was - no, he was not going to go there), Sam had been distant, cold. Dean could not help but be slightly bitter. Sam and his good intentions, Sam and his single-mindedness, Sam and his fucking ego. 

 

Dean couldn’t help but remember Sam’s mouth stained red, remember the incoherent rage that his brother had been reduced to. Remembered the hands, large and familiar, wrapped around his throat and squeezed. Remembered the crippling addiction and wondered how it even started, if Sammy drank blood that many times before it became the norm - he stopped thinking. He remembered the little brother who was fucking one of Hell’s whores while Dean was burning in its fire, remembered his Sammy who chose a demon over his brother and ended the world.

He would never regret making that deal; that was just not who Dean was (and John Winchester had made damn sure of that, but thinking like that seemed like blasphemy.) But sometimes, sometimes, he wished he never came back. Just stayed there for eternity, let Hellfire blacken his soul into smoky wisps, and never knew what became of his little brother. Let he remembered Sam as Sammy, with his puppy dog eyes and his stupid floppy hair, with his eggnog and bleeding heart. Not this - 

 

Dean closed his eyes, wanting to throw the cups of hot chocolate to the ground, wanting to watch the milky ceramic shatter to pieces as the warm liquid seeped through the cracks in the floor. He thought about going over to that pathetic tree and ripping the branches off one by one. That was how he felt in Hell, after all; each of his appendages twisted and broke like weakened, rotten bark as the chains pulled and ripped and cut. That was what he did, after all. Carved and carved and broke things to pieces.

 

Dean suppressed a whimper. He couldn’t, shouldn’t do this. He couldn’t ruin this for Cas. He needed to hold it all in like he always did, push his feelings down and seal his nightmarish mind with the mask of a smile, pull together the tattered pieces of his dreams and hopes and call himself whole. _ Cowboy up! _ John Winchester was a shit dad, but he was a good drill sergeant.  _ Cowboy up!  _ It was Christmas, right? 

 

He needed to make this work for Cas. His mournful flashbacks had no place putting a damper on the angel’s joy. (They never had anywhere else either, but he ignored that.) Instead, he took a gulp of the hot chocolate, letting the liquid thaw his frozen insides and burn his tongue, and he didn’t mind, because _ nothing could burn quite as bad as Hellfire _ , he thought bitterly, though Sam’s betrayal came real close; Cas’s death came second. 

 

“Dean?”  _ Speaking of the angel _ .

 

“What?” Dean’s voice was rough, like he had been shouting. However did that happened?

 

Castiel watched him carefully, looking for physical cues and things he would usually missed. Whatever the angel saw, he must had decided that talking about what happened was a no-go. To Dean’s relief, Cas changed the subject.

 

“Are you done with the beverage?”

 

Looking down at the cups clutched in his white-knuckled grip, he forced himself to relax and hand one cup over. Cas clutched at the cup, hands awkward and gangly, like he didn’t know how to use them. Dean knew he could, however; Cas’s performance the moment he came back spoke volume of the strength held in those hands. The angel gave him a tiny smile, before gulping down half of the drink in one go. The heat didn’t even phase him, the weirdo.

 

Dean watched the angel carefully, sipping his own drink. He saw the way the angel’s eyes lit up, the quirk at the corner of his mouth that looked like a smile, the softening lines around his eyes. He saw the angel happy, relaxed for the first time since ever, and he couldn’t help but relax also. This was good. This was safe. He could have this.

 

Dean smiled.

\------------------------------

They settled in the lumpy couch with their respective drinks, scrolling through the TV channels for what Dean called “proper Christmas flick, Cas, you have to see!” They skipped quickly through the news channels, uninterested and unwilling to hear how Lucifer was fucking up the Earth one disaster at a time. (Fucking Lucifer what the fuck, the overgrown spoiled brat.)  Eventually they settled with “It’s a Wonderful Life.”

 

“There’s no angels in the host named Clarence, Dean.”

 

“Shhh, I know, this is just fictional.”

 

“But -”

 

“Just watch Cas.”

 

“...”

 

The film ended, rather satisfyingly in Dean’s totally unbiased opinion. Cas still looked at the movie credits like it held the answer to God’s hideout though.

 

“Cas, what’s wrong?”

 

“... Dean, you know this applies to you, too, right?”

 

“What? What are you on about Cas?”

 

The angel looked at him steadily; blue eyes bore into green like the being could peer straight into his wretched soul. Said eyes flashed white with grace, like they held fire in their irises, filled with righteousness and a holy wrath burning so bright that it was hard for Dean to look at.

 

“Do not.” The angel growled. “Do not. If you are so incapable of loving, of trusting yourself, do refrain from insulting your soul.” He peered closer. “I, Dean, me, of all of my brethren, reached you first, because your soul, your light was so bright it shined the way to you for me in the depths of Hell. Because it called to me, because it was beautiful, the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, broken though it was. And I have seen plenty, Dean. I saved you, Dean, because you deserved to be saved, because you never, never belonged to Hell.”

 

The angel leaned back, eyes still alit with determination and indignation. “Hell stole you from Heaven, and I came to bring you back. I volunteered, to bring you back. Because you deserved it. If you can’t believe in yourself, believe in that, that you deserve to be saved, to be happy, to be  _ free _ .” 

 

Cas kept his eyes locked on Dean’s, refusing to let him turn away. “Don’t you dare, Dean Winchester, don’t you dare think for a second, that earth would be a better place without you, that your blindingly iridescent soul is anything dimmer than the north star, that you aren’t needed. You give and you give and you give, Dean. You’ve given so much yet you demand so little. You lie and you cheat and you steal and you  fight and you bleed and you die for the love you have for others. You damned yourself to Hell for your brother, Dean. You’re selfless and you worth so much, I wish you could just see.”

 

A rough palm was placed on Dean’s nape, the thumb rubbing soothing circles behind Dean’s ears. Castiel’s eyes were gentle, now. “You have taught me, still continue to teach me so much, Dean, it’s incredible. You opened my eyes to a lot of things, and I was forever grateful for it.” His eyes flicked to the TV and back to Dean’s face “You should learn from your films, Dean. If George Bailey can see worth in himself, you can as well.” 

 

And what could Dean do, then, if not to follow the warm hand and fall into the angel’s embrace? He felt raw, flayed open and exposed for everyone to see. But there was no one here but Cas, and Cas he trusted with everything else, Cas who would never turn his back on him, Cas who put him first. Cas who made him felt things he had never felt before. 

 

He wasn’t totally convinced that he deserved this angel, but for now, he felt the closest to whole since he crawled his way out of his grave, and it was an incredible feeling. So he pecked his angel on the cheek, and snuggled closer. Today was Christmas; they both were a bit broken, a bit shattered, but the faith they had in each other was enough, then, to weather through this snowy night. And maybe they laughed and they smiled and they cried a bit, but no one else needed to know that now, did they?

 

(Then days later, Dean came face to face with Future Cas, who was a shell of a human being, who smelled of drug and sex and nothing like an angel, who wore ratty clothes and scruffs like an armor, who was human and so, so broken. And himself, 4 years into the future, cold and unyielding and a torturer, who used his friends as cannon fodders, who killed Cas and how, how did it get so wrong. And Dean watched as Lucifer, wearing Sam’s face, smiling serenely and wrongwrongwrong, and could  only scream into the pieces of his mind as the future shattered to pieces.) 

  
  



End file.
